Yep, there she was climbing up the boat ladder, wet red hair and white bikini with the cherries looking like polka dots.
She forced her eyes to read the text. Usual stuff about sexy prince and mysterious redhead frolicking in the sunny Italian Riviera, etc, etc. Thankfully she was too pasty to go topless and they hadn’t gotten any shots while she and Giorgio “frolicked” on the apartment terrace.
But then—now her stomach was really cramping—the part she hadn’t known.
Prince Giorgio of Vinciguerra is lucky to be cavorting in the sea after a recent fright for his life at a New York hospital. According to insiders at Manhattan Medical Center, the bachelor prince arrived suffering chest pains.
Chest pains?” she muttered. Giorgio acted as healthy as a horse.
Renata read further.
Too much work and not enough play was the diagnosis. The prescription? Rest and relaxation, and it seems the magnificent monarch has found both in the arms—and charms—of his sexy redheaded gal pal.
She wrinkled up her mouth. “‘Gal pal,’ my ass.” And what was that crap about a prescription for R & R? She’d known he’d needed a vacation, but it had been medically necessary?
“Signorina?” the old lady running the newsstand asked cautiously. Renata could feel a flush creeping up her neck.
“Here.” She tossed a handful of euros onto the counter and took a copy of each colorful publication. She spun on her heel and stalked back to their apartment, the villagers watching her with wide eyes.
She crashed the door open. “Giorgio!”
“Ah, Renata.” He came toward her with open arms, slowly dropping them to his side as she clutched the tabloids to her chest. “What is wrong? What do you have there?”
She shook the papers at him. “One of those sailors sold photos of us to this British magazine. And this Italian one, too, although I couldn’t read the story. God only knows what that one says.”
“Renata mia, I am so sorry. I thought we might avoid their notice by coming to such a small town before the busy season started.”
“That’s not the point. Read the article.” She shoved the British one at him.
He read the article, his face darkening.
“Is that true? You went to the emergency room with chest pains?” Her own chest hurt at the thought of what must have been his pain and fear.
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“When?”
For the first time, he looked embarrassed and unsure of himself. “The day we met.”
“Before or after we met?”
“After,” he admitted.
Her eyebrows shot up into her hair. “So after our wonderful day in New York and some heavy-duty stuff at night, you dropped me off and Paolo rushed you to the emergency room.”
“Yes.”
“With chest pains.”
“Yes. But not a heart attack, fortunately.”
“Fortunately,” she echoed. “So what was it?”
“Chili dogs.”
“Indigestion? And anything else?” She wanted to see if the tabloid report of his overwork and stress was true. “Not really.”
“Why did you go to the E.R.? Certainly you’ve had indigestion before?”
“Paolo was worried.”
“And after you left the E.R., you called me to invite me to Italy with you. Were you even home by then or did you call me from the car?”
He shifted. “The car.”
She was getting mighty sick of his short answers. “Giorgio, something’s not adding up here. God knows these magazines are not the fount of truth, but they say the E.R. doc told you the chest pains were partly caused by too much work and not enough play.”
He winced again. “Renata, I am a busy man. I do have much work and I haven’t had a vacation in several years.”
“That’s not what I mean!” She threw the papers on the floor. “We met and had a great time. Then you decided to invite me to Italy to blow off some steam and I accepted because we really hit it off. But I’m missing something here. You never told me anything about your hospital trip. You never said the doctors told you to take it easy. That’s why you wouldn’t eat much bread or pasta, right? They even put you on a diet.” She started to tear up. “We never took it easy. All that hiking, swimming and sex. I could have killed you.”
“Ah, but what a way to go.” He gave her a devilish grin.
“Jerk!”
He looked confused. “The doctor never told me not to have sex.”
“Not that, stupido! You lied to get me here to Italy. You never mentioned any of this medical crisis. I thought you wanted me here so we could spend time with each other, have some fun…” Fall in love. She angrily brushed away that thought.
“I regret my actions have caused you distress.”
“Ah.” She stared at him, but he didn’t say anything more. And why did he need to explain anything to her?
He never pretended to be someone he wasn’t, had never spoken of undying love for her in an attempt to get her in the sack. But something wasn’t jibing. Even if he had told her ninety-nine percent of the truth, he was still hiding something. She could read it in the way he had put on his formal manners instead of just being plain Giorgio, the man she had come to care for over the past week. “What else is going on, Giorgio?”
“Nothing.” His face closed down, his expression as lively as an emperor’s profile carved on an ancient coin.
She narrowed her eyes. “I may only be a dressmaker from the backstreets of Brooklyn but I know when some guy is blowing smoke up my skirt.”
“I am not, as you say, blowing smoke anywhere. I wanted to be with you and took the opportunity to invite you here. Do you regret coming?”
She stared at him. How could she answer that? She’d loved every minute she spent with him, both in New York and Italy. That was the problem. The more time she spent with him, the more she longed for him—and the less she wanted to leave him. “I…I don’t know.”
He grew even more remote. “I see.”
No, he didn’t, but telling him she had done something incredibly stupid like fall in love with him would make things even more awkward and awful. “I need to get back to New York.” That was part of the truth. “My business needs me, and I’m sure your country needs you.” She sounded like a military recruiting poster. Vinciguerra needs You, Prince Giorgio.
“Yes, of course.” He pulled his phone off his belt clip with a smooth move. She hid her trembling hands in the folds of her skirt. He tapped a few commands into his phone. “I’ve changed your flight to an earlier one. Paolo will make arrangements with Captain Galletti to get you to Genoa in plenty of time. You can leave within the hour.”
Her nails bit into her palms. “Fine. Good. I will go pack.”
He gave her a brusque nod. “I will leave you to it. In the meantime, I need to run an errand.” He replaced his phone and disappeared out the door.
Renata swallowed hard, a bitter taste in her mouth. Was he even bothering to come back to say goodbye or was it another of Paolo’s job requirements to clean up messy romantic entanglements, as well?
She looked at the clock over the small dining table. Well, screw Prince Giorgio and his minion. She’d get her own butt back to Genoa and they could take a flying leap. Spinning on her heel, she blew through the bedroom and bath, stuffing her belongings willy-nilly into a suitcase. Forget the bottles of Scciachetrà, forget the frilly lingerie. The wine would sour in her stomach and the sight of the under-garments would make her cry. If she had time, she’d burn them in the outdoor fireplace, but she didn’t.
All Renata wanted to do was to get home to New York, where she could make wedding dresses for girls stupid enough to believe in happy endings. There would be none for her.
GIORGIO KNEW HIS LEGS were moving because he was descending, but the rest of him was numb. He arrived at the street level somehow and his feet slowly picked a path along the cobbled streets.
Renata was leaving him, going
back to her real life in New York City. She hadn’t told him never to call her again, but she hadn’t left the door open for him, either, telling him she partially regretted coming to Italy with him.
What had he done that was so terrible she had to leave him even sooner than anticipated? He had given her a fairy-tale vacation, complete with seaside cruise, romantic hikes and a cozy villa for their lovemaking.
Images of her face lit with passion flashed to his mind and his breath left him with a whoosh. She had been like no other woman—and no other would ever measure up to her.
He stared at the brightly painted houses and shops. He knew he would never return to Vernazza, could never stand to return to the Cinque Terre again in his life. The café where they ate breakfast, the trattoria where they ate dinner. The gift store where she’d bought the inexpensive souvenirs for her family. And the lingerie store with a sheer, flowing nightgown in the window. He stumbled slightly on a raised stone and caught himself before falling.
The worst thing is that he probably would have to see Renata again in the course of the wedding events. It was not unusual for designers to help the bride dress for the wedding ceremony in case of last-minute mishaps or alterations.
If he told Stevie the truth about what had happened between Renata and him, she would cancel her gown out of misguided loyalty, the gown that she loved and that made her look like an angel descending to earth. All three of them could be miserable: him for losing Renata, Renata for losing her commission and Stevie for losing her gown.
Hopefully by then the pain of missing her would lessen from the current hot coal sitting in his chest. If he hadn’t recently been assured of at least marginal good health in that aspect, he would have sworn his heart was literally breaking.
Again memories of her threatened to flood his self-control. Renata giving him the eye as she flirted with him in her shop. Renata sleeping so innocently tangled up in their sheets. Renata laughing with the dolphins.
Giorgio stopped at the window of a small jewelry store. Diamonds, rubies, gold and platinum. None shone as bright as she did.
If only he were plain George di Leone, New York businessman. He would date Renata for the minimally acceptable amount of time, give her a diamond ring and then have her design the most beautiful gown in the world for the most beautiful bride.
If only.
But no, he was Prince Giorgio, ruler of his very own country in the back reaches of the Italian peninsula. What woman would want to give up her New York address, her New York business for a position, royal though it may be, that sucked away most of your privacy and tied you to duty for the good part of your life?
There would have to be a very good reason. Giorgio stopped in his tracks. He knew her well enough to know that riches and power would never sway her, not even the most expensive item in the jewelry store.
He saw a small heart-shaped pendant made of diamonds. That heart. Her heart. His heart. His heart that he worried about so, worried at every minor twinge—he worried about it stopping when he should have been worried about it breaking.
He pressed a hand to his chest. It thumped strongly, but for what? An empty heart could live a long time, but for what? No Renata to listen to it as she rested in his arms, no Renata to fill it with her smiles and her…love?
It was almost a blow, that realization. Was she so upset because she loved him?
A gasp escaped his lips. And he had done what to deserve her love? Nothing. In fact, he had kicked it away like a football in a World Cup tournament.
Moron! He clenched his fist. He needed to find her. Would she believe him…believe that he loved her? Because he did. How would he convince her?
By giving her this heart of his, this unquenchable burning that she had set aflame since the first smile of her ruby lips. It was the only thing he had to offer her that she might accept.
He immediately ran back to the villa, cursing his previous stupidity with every step. How had he not realized he loved her?
He arrived at the stairs leading up and stopped short. Instead of a beautiful redhead waiting for him to come to his senses, Paolo stood there.
“Where? Where is she?” He pushed past Paolo, but his driver put a beefy hand on his shoulder.
“Signore, she is gone before I get here.”
“Gone? How?” He searched wildly up and down the street.
Paolo jerked his head up the hill. “I think she must have taken the train. It left only a few minutes ago—the train to Genoa.”
He clutched at his head. “Paolo, I love her. I can’t stand to lose her. What do I do?”
“Cancel her plane ticket.”
Always the practical one. “Right.” He grabbed his phone and called the airline, his face contorting as he listened to the ticket agent. He hung up. “Paolo, she already canceled her ticket and bought herself a new one—I can’t cancel that.” Renata and her stubborn pride. He didn’t know whether to admire or curse her independence.
“Capitano Galletti is waiting for us at the dock. We can intercept her before she gets to Genoa.”
Giorgio was already running. “Let’s go.” He’d al ready made a terrible mistake by letting her go once—he wouldn’t make that mistake twice.
RENATA STARED GLASSY-EYED out the window of the train as it jolted along the tracks. All she had to do was get to the airport, get on the plane and then get home. Once she was back in New York, she could fall apart, cry all she wanted and generally act like a lovelorn maniac without involving airport security, customs or Interpol.
She had passed the point of beating herself up for falling in love with Giorgio and was just trying to numb herself for the next several hours. Would several airport cocktails help with that or turn her into a sniveling mess? Hard to say. She tried but failed to suppress a sigh.
The older woman sitting next to her took that as a signal to chat. She offered her a strawberry, delicious and fresh from her garden.
Renata shook her head and told her no thank you. She would choke if she tried to swallow anything. “Signorina, you sick?” Her seatmate furrowed her sun-weathered brow. Her eyes were dark and kind, her graying hair pulled back into a bun. She was the quintessential Italian mamma, and that made Renata feel even more homesick.
“No, um, sad.” Her tears started to well up despite her efforts at ice-maidenhood. Damn that Giorgio! For someone so wonderful, he sure was making her miserable.
“Oh, bad. La famiglia sta bene?”
“Yes, my family is fine. A man—un uomo.”
“Bah!” Her face lit up in knowing disgust. She turned to the other women and explained Renata’s distress, wrapping a heavy, comforting arm around her shoulder.
A white-haired woman with the face of a dried apple waved her hands. “Pah!” She spit on the train’s floor and shook her head. The other women made noises of sympathy.
Her new friend patted her hand with her work-roughened one. “Si, you find new man. A girl so bella—easy. Bella figura, bella faccia. The men all chase you. My son—he very ’ansome. He own a boat for fish,” she said enticingly.
Renata smiled politely. Even a fisherman who probably lived with his mamma sounded better than Giorgio.
The train slowed to a stop. From the loud protests and big gestures, it wasn’t a planned stop. Hmm, who had the clout to stop a train? It had better be some stray animal on the tracks, or else.
The women were worked up into a frenzied pitch by the time the door slid open and the conductor came in. He cringed at the noisy imprecations and protests aimed his way. Making a placating gesture, he stepped to the side and there he was.
Renata groaned and jumped to her feet. “Get lost, Giorgio!”
He extended a hand to her. “Renata, please. Listen to me.”
“You aren’t the boss here—this isn’t even your country.”
Her seatmate turned her glare to Giorgio. “He the man you cry for?”
Renata turned her puffy, sore gaze at him. “Yes.”
“
Oh, Renata.” Giorgio’s face sagged and he tried to say something to her.
Renata’s new protectress shouted something to the other women and in the blink of an eye, she pulled a ripe tomato from her sack.
“Wait, no…” Renata tugged at the woman’s arm but she shook her off and chucked it straight at him.
That was the signal to the other women and Giorgio’s immaculate white linen shirt soon looked like the canvas of a Jackson Pollock splatter painting. He twisted and tried to get out of the way, but the railroad car was narrow and he was pinned down.
She gasped and laughed at the same time, but then the farm-fresh eggs came out. Even the hens were on her side in this female battle. “No more!” she shouted in Italian. “Enough!” Eggshells were sharp. She should know; she’d walked on them often enough.
The women grumbled and gave Giorgio the malocchio, the Italian version of the stink eye.
Giorgio wiped tomato pulp off his face and plucked an anchovy off his shoulder. “Your new friends certainly look after you, Renata.”
“Yes, well…” She’d definitely won the pity vote on her unexpectedly short train ride. “What do you want, Giorgio?”
After a wary look around, he approached her. She stood, arms folded across her chest. “Renata, I want you—”
“Yeah, I already knew that.” He wanted her, all right. Wanted her as the sexual equivalent of a stress reliever. “You could have told me the truth, you know. You could have said, ‘Hey, Renata, I need a vacation or my doctor says I’ll keel over. Feel like having sex with me in Italy? I’ll find a nice hotel.’”
The women muttered angrily, getting the gist of her accusation. She continued, “Instead, you have to go and lie and tell me all that crap about how you can’t stop thinking of me.”
“All of it true.” He glanced warily at the women. “Please. Step outside with me for a minute—only a minute, I promise.”
She pursed her lips but consented. Giorgio helped her down the train car’s iron steps to a small stone terraced wall with grapevines dangling above it. “Please sit with me.” He waited until she grudgingly sat, a good foot and a half away from him.
Royally Romanced Page 18